It was a dark and stormy night at a secluded house in Derry, Maine. The lone house sat nestled in a place where two small forests met. No traffic traversed across the unpaved road. Lightning split open the sky, and as if on cue, rain gushed from the heavens. When the lightning illuminated the front yard it could be seen that the house was in disrepair. A rusty, blue Chevrolet pickup sat in the driveway, its engine ticking as it cooled down. The silhouette of a man could be seen pacing the width of the kitchen.
Mike nervously paced back and forth in the kitchen of his Mom’s house. What am I doing here? the eighteen year old asked himself as he paced the kitchen in the dark. The hands on his watch read 1:23. His raincoat was hanging on a hook in the hall. Save for Mike’s footsteps and the rain outside, the tap, tap, tap of water dripping off his coat was the only sound in the old house. The kitchen light flashed on, blindingly, making Mike squint.
“What are ya doo’n here, Michelle?” A gruff, drunken voice asked. Mike recognized the voice of his Mom’s boyfriend, Chuck. Chuck was dressed in a pair of checkered boxer shorts and a yellowed, sweat-stained tank top. Mike gave Chuck a venomous look. Mike had hated Chuck from the first moment that he had walked through the front door. Within a month of meeting Chuck, Mike’s Mom and Dad got divorced. Soon after, Chuck moved into his mother’s house. After that, Mike would come home from school and see the bruises that his Mother’s alcoholic boyfriend would treat her to each time he picked up a brown bottle.
Chuck sickened Mike. Mike hated the way Chuck smelled, like used booze and sour, old sweat; Mike hated Chuck’s bald head and greasy face. Mike hated Chuck’s beer gut, and the burst blood vessels on his nose and in his eyes that came as a result of Chuck having his snout in a bottle since Tom Cruse was a toddler. But most of all, Mike hated the way this flabby, pathetic man beat his mother. Mike also hated his mother, because she would not stand up to this lump of bloated meat.
“Are ya screwed in the head?” Chuck asked. “Tell me what yar doing here, ya bastard!”
Mike stammered for an answer, and then it felt as if another person took over his body.
“I was just passing through,” Mike lied, “but I got a flat tire. I was hoping there was a jack here so I could put on the spare.”
Mike looked Chuck square in his repulsive, bloodshot eyes. Finally, the message got through the drunken man’s thick skull. I’ll bet his skull’s not as thick as you think, a voice in Mike’s head whispered. “Yeah, there’s a jack here,” Chuck mumbled, “but yar too much of a priss to be able to jack up that truck of yars.”
Mike forced an artificial grin on his face. “Yeah,” he replied, “I’ll need you to give me a hand.” Mike grabbed his raincoat, and in one fluid motion, slipped it on. Then he opened the kitchen door and bowed his head against the rain as he stepped outside. As he walked out, his hand reached up and flipped the kitchen light off. Chuck, swaying drunkenly, followed Mike out the door.
Mike nervously paced back and forth in the kitchen of his Mom’s house. What am I doing here? the eighteen year old asked himself as he paced the kitchen in the dark. The hands on his watch read 3:45. His raincoat was hung on a hook in the hall. Save for Mike’s footsteps and the rain outside, the tap, tap, tap of something dripping off his raincoat, something much darker colored and more sinister than water, was the only sound in the old house. Mike suddenly realized that there was something in his hand and he looked, dumbfounded, at the tire iron in his hand.
Why am I holding this? Mike wondered. It is the tire iron that he usually kept in the back of his pickup. Heart hammering, Mike quickly walked to the light switch and flipped it into the ON position. Mike’s heart leapt to his throat as he looked at his hands. They were streaked with something liquid, something red. The tire iron in his hand was also painted crimson, a color it never was before. Mike gasped and ran to the kitchen sink. He opened the cupboard under the sink and stuffed the tire iron inside.
Mike then shut the cupboard door and turned the kitchen faucet on. The water that came out of the spigot was steaming, but Mike still plunged his hands into the scalding water. He scrubbed his hands and arms with the dishwashing soap that sat by the sink. The soap’s label insanely screamed: Cuts Through Grease Better Than Our Leading Competitor!
Finally, Mike turned off the stream of water. His hands were a bright shade of pink and they stung and tingled. Calmly, Mike picked up a sponge that was sitting by the sink and washed the red stains off the cupboard handles and the light switch.
“Chuck, is that you?” a voice asked from down the hallway.
“No, Mom, it’s me.” Mike answered. His mother entered the kitchen and yawned.
“Where’s Chuck?” His mother asked, looking around. “I thought I heard you talking to him.” Continue to Blackouts page two
Mike nervously paced back and forth in the kitchen of his Mom’s house. What am I doing here? the eighteen year old asked himself as he paced the kitchen in the dark. The hands on his watch read 1:23. His raincoat was hanging on a hook in the hall. Save for Mike’s footsteps and the rain outside, the tap, tap, tap of water dripping off his coat was the only sound in the old house. The kitchen light flashed on, blindingly, making Mike squint.
“What are ya doo’n here, Michelle?” A gruff, drunken voice asked. Mike recognized the voice of his Mom’s boyfriend, Chuck. Chuck was dressed in a pair of checkered boxer shorts and a yellowed, sweat-stained tank top. Mike gave Chuck a venomous look. Mike had hated Chuck from the first moment that he had walked through the front door. Within a month of meeting Chuck, Mike’s Mom and Dad got divorced. Soon after, Chuck moved into his mother’s house. After that, Mike would come home from school and see the bruises that his Mother’s alcoholic boyfriend would treat her to each time he picked up a brown bottle.
Chuck sickened Mike. Mike hated the way Chuck smelled, like used booze and sour, old sweat; Mike hated Chuck’s bald head and greasy face. Mike hated Chuck’s beer gut, and the burst blood vessels on his nose and in his eyes that came as a result of Chuck having his snout in a bottle since Tom Cruse was a toddler. But most of all, Mike hated the way this flabby, pathetic man beat his mother. Mike also hated his mother, because she would not stand up to this lump of bloated meat.
“Are ya screwed in the head?” Chuck asked. “Tell me what yar doing here, ya bastard!”
Mike stammered for an answer, and then it felt as if another person took over his body.
“I was just passing through,” Mike lied, “but I got a flat tire. I was hoping there was a jack here so I could put on the spare.”
Mike looked Chuck square in his repulsive, bloodshot eyes. Finally, the message got through the drunken man’s thick skull. I’ll bet his skull’s not as thick as you think, a voice in Mike’s head whispered. “Yeah, there’s a jack here,” Chuck mumbled, “but yar too much of a priss to be able to jack up that truck of yars.”
Mike forced an artificial grin on his face. “Yeah,” he replied, “I’ll need you to give me a hand.” Mike grabbed his raincoat, and in one fluid motion, slipped it on. Then he opened the kitchen door and bowed his head against the rain as he stepped outside. As he walked out, his hand reached up and flipped the kitchen light off. Chuck, swaying drunkenly, followed Mike out the door.
Mike nervously paced back and forth in the kitchen of his Mom’s house. What am I doing here? the eighteen year old asked himself as he paced the kitchen in the dark. The hands on his watch read 3:45. His raincoat was hung on a hook in the hall. Save for Mike’s footsteps and the rain outside, the tap, tap, tap of something dripping off his raincoat, something much darker colored and more sinister than water, was the only sound in the old house. Mike suddenly realized that there was something in his hand and he looked, dumbfounded, at the tire iron in his hand.
Why am I holding this? Mike wondered. It is the tire iron that he usually kept in the back of his pickup. Heart hammering, Mike quickly walked to the light switch and flipped it into the ON position. Mike’s heart leapt to his throat as he looked at his hands. They were streaked with something liquid, something red. The tire iron in his hand was also painted crimson, a color it never was before. Mike gasped and ran to the kitchen sink. He opened the cupboard under the sink and stuffed the tire iron inside.
Mike then shut the cupboard door and turned the kitchen faucet on. The water that came out of the spigot was steaming, but Mike still plunged his hands into the scalding water. He scrubbed his hands and arms with the dishwashing soap that sat by the sink. The soap’s label insanely screamed: Cuts Through Grease Better Than Our Leading Competitor!
Finally, Mike turned off the stream of water. His hands were a bright shade of pink and they stung and tingled. Calmly, Mike picked up a sponge that was sitting by the sink and washed the red stains off the cupboard handles and the light switch.
“Chuck, is that you?” a voice asked from down the hallway.
“No, Mom, it’s me.” Mike answered. His mother entered the kitchen and yawned.
“Where’s Chuck?” His mother asked, looking around. “I thought I heard you talking to him.”
Continue to Blackouts page two